


This Love

by noblydonedonnanoble



Series: The Road We Never Drove On [8]
Category: Doctor Who RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-21
Updated: 2012-07-21
Packaged: 2017-11-10 10:23:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/465223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noblydonedonnanoble/pseuds/noblydonedonnanoble





	This Love

                All I want is to hold Catherine in my arms again.

                She’s therapeutic to me, in a weird way. Being with her… I’m always happy.

                Honestly, I love her. I shouldn’t. And I try my hardest not to say it, because saying it would be admitting that I’m a bad person. I’m not a bad person, not really. I just… fell in love with a woman I couldn’t marry. Because first she was stuck.

                Now I am.

                But sometimes I run. Never for long—not for long enough to be noticed, not for long enough to be truly satisfying. I do it, though, still, because without Catherine, I’d be nothing.

                I’m running for her now. This time, it’s a family visit that scared me off. Georgia’s mother is staying for a few nights, trying to help relieve some parental stress.

                Which isn’t doing much to relieve my general stress.

                So I tell Catherine that I’m coming home with her after the show tonight. And she agrees, as she always does.

                After the stage door, we retreat to our separate rooms to gather our things. Normally on occasions such as this one, I go to her room when I’m ready. But tonight, she comes to me. She stops in the doorway, leaning against the frame with crossed arms.

                “What’s it tonight, David?”

                I consider telling her that I just wanted to spend time with her. And I do. I always want to spend time with her. But she and I both know that I’d never risk actually going to _her flat_ unless there’s a reason for it.

                I decide not to bother with sugar-coating. “Georgia’s mother.”

                She laughs at me. I feel the need to clarify that she is indeed laughing _at_ me, because she wouldn’t want me to sugar-coat it. “You and mothers, David, I swear to God. Come on, then, my car should be waiting.”

                We make idle chit chat in the car, mostly because we can’t make real conversation without reaching very uncomfortable road blocks very fast. Real conversations are for the theatre or for dinner, when our friendship is simply that: a friendship.

                As soon as we’re inside her flat I have her pushed against the wall. The idea of shagging against a wall seems stupid, but I need her in my arms again and I’m not particularly interested in waiting until we can reach a more convenient surface.

                Really, truly _kissing_ Catherine is nothing like on stage. On these occasions, she loses all of her reservations. Part of it is that now she doesn’t have an audience, which means she doesn’t have to act like she’s purely _acting_. But perhaps more importantly, she never knows when I’ll do this again, when I’ll feel like running. Every time she kisses me, it’s like she’s afraid it will never happen again. Not like this, anyway, not when we’re free.

                I like that. I like her kissing me like the world is going to end, because it makes me think that maybe if the world were ending, she’d want to spend her last hours with me.

                Catherine knows me, inside and out; she knows my body, each contour and every inch of my flesh, but more importantly she knows my thoughts, my ideas and my deepest fears. She’s picked me apart and when we’re together like this, all alone, I remember how glad I am that she does know me so well.

                There’s no one else I’d be happy to reveal myself to so completely.

                I savor the feel of her hot breath on my skin, and feel goosebumps everywhere she just so happens to touch me.

                That’s nothing, though, compared to her reactions to my fingers as they wander down. She gasps into my mouth, grinds her hips against mine and scratches her fingers across my back.

                And then she’s whispering, “Please.”

                Well, if she’s going to say please.

                I sometimes wonder why Catherine doesn’t refuse me. She has plenty of reasons to, with the fact that I’m engaged to be married later this year being only one concern.

                She never says she loves me.

                Though I suppose I don’t say it to her either. So perhaps she’s doing the right thing, by trying to hold on to herself.

                We openly give each other our love, and we’ve given away everything.

                As I pump into her, I kiss and suck along her neck. Every time a moan escapes her lips, I bite her, which just makes her moan even louder.

                When she comes and screams my name, nails digging deep into my back—perhaps even deep enough to draw blood—I come along with her, my shouts muffled in her shoulder.

                Her grip doesn’t let up until our breathing has slowed.

                I lean my forehead against hers and brush her hair out of her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

                Nothing sounds suspicious quite like an apology. “For what, David?”

                “For doing this. I feel… I feel like I’m wronging you in some way.”

                Saying that was meant to be some sort of comfort, but from the way she looks at me it’s not all that comforting. “You want to avoid your future mother-in-law, so you come home with me and fuck me… And then say you’re sorry? David, that’s...”

                That’s what? Why do I feel like whatever it is, it’s not going to be good?

                “I don’t even have a good _word_ for what it is. Bizarre? Weird? You just said that shagging me is wrong.”

                Does she not think it’s wrong? How could she _possibly_ not think it’s wrong? In this situation, under the circumstances that have led me here in the first place, this feels pretty wrong. “Don’t you… don’t you think it’s wrong?”

                Very suddenly, I’m treading on thin ice, and I don’t understand quite why. A switch has gone off in her brain. I’ve got no idea what exactly has triggered it, or why she’s looking at me like she wants to cry.

                “You want to know what I think is wrong?” I almost feel like saying no, but she’s going to go on regardless of my response. Besides which, if I actually responded to her rhetorical question, she might get even more angry with me. And I… I don’t want Catherine to be angry. I want to curl up with her on her bed and hold her in my arms while she falls asleep. I just want to have her for a few hours. Whatever I said to make her angry, whatever I did… I want it to just go away because anger isn’t going to solve anything. I don’t want her to tell me what she thinks is wrong. But she still does. “I think you just sleeping with me when you don’t feel like going _home_ is wrong. I think you randomly telling me that you’re coming home with me is wrong. I think the fact that I actually willingly drop _everything_ for you is wrong. You never stop to ask me if I have plans, if maybe I’m not in the mood for a shag; you just assume that I’ll be okay with it.”

                Oh God. I’ve hurt her. And it’s apparently not something I just did, but it’s something I’ve unconsciously _been_ doing. How am I supposed to fix this? What does she expect me to say? “I’m… I’m sorry.”

                “Again with you saying you’re sorry! Stop telling me you’re sorry. For once, try and tell me some way that you’re going to _fix_ a problem.”

                “I don’t… What am I supposed to say?”

                She frowns at me. Tears are welling up in her eyes. “David, if I have to tell you what to say, then there’s no point in you saying it.”

                What does that even _mean_? “What…”

                “Maybe we shouldn’t do this anymore. Maybe this should stop.”

                “Do you want it to stop?” I whisper.

                Catherine holds my gaze for a few moments, but looks away before speaking. “I’m tired of looking at you every day and wondering if you’ll come to my dressing room that night. I’m tired of you shagging me and then leaving. Even more, I’m tired of you shagging me and _staying_. I’m tired of wondering how the fuck you explain away so many nights to Georgia and how she still believes you. I’m just… I’m tired.”

                I notice that she still hasn’t said that she _wants_ it to end. And I’m clinging to a minute hope, because I need her. I need her in such an intense, painful way that I’ve never needed anyone before. “But…”

                “You should go, David.”

                What. I don’t understand why her words are so harsh but why her eyes are so pained.

                She waits for me to respond, but when I don’t she pulls herself away from me, going to the other side of the room—to put distance between us, I can tell. “Really. Please, leave.”

                “I… I don’t… I need you, Catherine.”

                Her laugh is harsh. “Clearly you don’t. C’mon now, please just go away.”

                Why is she hurting me like this? “No. I can’t… I can’t live without you. I don’t know how.”

                “Perhaps you should figure it out sooner rather than later.”

                Both of us stand on opposite sides of the room, holding eye contact. I’m still having trouble figuring out exactly how we got to this point, so I’m not ready to step away yet. She has started to cry, and I want to wipe them away but most likely that wouldn’t be too well-received. As if she knows what I’m thinking, she brings a hand up and brushes it across her face. “Get out,” she says again.

                “How am I supposed to go on?”

                “I don’t know. Why don’t you start by spending time with your _family_? And remembering why you thought it would be a good idea to have a _family_ in the first place? Since, after all, they are your _family_.”

                The way she says the word makes it sound dirty. She says it like having a family is some sort of crime. And all of a sudden, sleeping with her doesn’t feel wrong—having a family, going through the motions when it’s with someone I don’t want it to be with, feels wrong.

                “What if I called off the wedding?” I ask suddenly. “What if I went home and told Georgia I don’t want to marry her?”

                “You wouldn’t.”

                She sounds so certain. It hurts. “Why?”

                As quickly as she got away from me, she comes close again. But she doesn’t touch me; she goes for the pocket of my shorts, pulling out my wallet. She flips through it for a second, then pulls something out. “That’s why.” Her voice is suddenly tender, and I wonder why she transitioned so quickly again until I see what she’s showing me.

                Olive is staring at me. A picture I snapped of her on the first day when we brought her home from the hospital. I take the photo out of Catherine’s hand and hold it gingerly.

                “Now go, David. Leave.” Her voice has gone hard again.

                “Are you really trying to tell me that you don’t want this—“ I gesture between us. “—to keep happening?”

                Instead of answering, she just pushes me in the direction of the door.

                What am I supposed to do without her? How am I supposed to function when I get the desperate urge to kiss her and I can’t; when I want to hug her a bit too close; when I want to touch her all over?

                She opens the door.

                “Don’t do this. Let me stay.” I pause, then in a low whisper, “Please.”

                “I’m tired,” she says again. “I’ll never be happy as long as you do this.”

                “Please.” I don’t beg, but here I am. Might as well get on my hands and knees, except I know it won’t make a difference.

                Catherine snaps again and turns cold. “Come on now, David. Your _family_ is waiting for you.”

                I would do anything to get her to stop spitting that word out at me. Including, it seems, leave.

                My car is back at the theatre. Instead of taking a cab back there and driving home, I decide I’ll just get it tomorrow.

                Tomorrow. When Catherine will no doubt avoid my eyes, will brush me off, will talk to anyone so long as it keeps her from having to make polite conversation with me.

                I feel like I’m dying already.


End file.
